Forewarned
by Late to the Party
Summary: What if Gorion had delayed their journey long enough for certain truths to occur? What if tensions in Candlekeep were different? And what if the knowledge and preparation of what was to come changed everything? What if her Destiny was already known to her? (No need for the Solar for starters!) AU.
1. The Stone

**A/N: Disclaimer: I don't own any of the names, characters, setting contained within. Bioware/Black Isle/Interplay does, with the exceptions of this particular Charname.**

* * *

Amidst the tomes were manuals, manuals of war. Military training: ancient, foreign, analytical, pictorial. Buried between shelves blanketed with dust and lost to time, I found my calling. The way of the blade, the path of purity. Cloistered within fortress walls, within hallowed halls, I studied.

— Flamerule 2, 1368 DR

She put the journal down. Apathy was not her normal state, but tonight indifference held her. It had been that way for the past tenday. The act of gathering her thoughts on parchment did little to ease her mind. Not even her meditations cleared her thoughts. Cross-legged, she focused on the single candle and its flickering flame. Gently, she gathered the manual beside her and carefully leafed through its brush-worked pages. Paper. Symbols she could not read until Father had given her the lens.

Balancing the manual on her left knee, she lifted the stone to her right. Almost reverently, she set it before the candle. In the dim light, it glistened. Metallic, crystal, stone, black-grey. It had made its way to her in Mirtul, falling from the stars. None of the constellations seemed to claim it, she reflected. Often, she had wondered where it had come from and why. It had struck the sea one night, slamming through the high tide into the beach below. In starlight, she had scaled the walls and cliff, only to find it hot and fused to the glassy-sand around it. The breeze had buffeted her, and for hours, she waited for the stone to cool. The journal flopped, its pages sliding. Mirtul. Ches. Hammer. Daily entries. Hours of musings crammed into short, cryptic sentences. Poetry-like, in some cases; harsher in others.

_Enough_, she decided. The inkpot and pen she pushed aside, and took up the empty brazier. It was meant to summon the spirit of fire from the elemental plane. Nothing she had employed could melt the stone.

As the manual instructed, she focused her will. The circle of runes were there to give her focus, holding no innate properties of their own. This summoning demanded no magic, and the flame should be enough to shape the stone.

No being of flame came. Her call unheeded, she concentrated on the stone itself. She concentrated on her core, on who she was. A life of discipline, of purity. The body and the mind. The will. Her essence, her ki.

The stone split, infused.


	2. Birth

Tears formed before me, two in number. Claws. They fit my hands, a natural tang between my fingers, in my fist. Bound in silken hair, raven hued, my mother's, they sparkle in the guttering candlelight and shimmer in the sun. I see a myriad of tones. The white blue and fading grey, the soft browns, and the crimson blood. A fire glows within them, deep inside. Life, its own, seeps acrid blood. Sickly, metallic green, and within it, red.

— Flamerule 3, 1368 DR

They came alive in her hands. A practitioner of blades, her art. The ancient manuals ascribed the likeness to life, becoming part of the blade. A matter of spirit beyond steel. A holy state. Droplets of blood had pooled in the brazier, blood from the stone, from her. It seeped back up and into the stones, the elegant tears, exquisitely formed. Neither metal, nor rock, nor gem, they were as obsidian glass and granite thrust in blackened steel.

The knowledge of what she had done eluded her. The rite was born of will, of focus. The tears were linked to her; she felt them. Nothing of The Art held them, still they pulsed as if it did. Tiny pinpricks that ebbed and rose, falling still, disquiet, ill-content.

A stub, the flame flickered out, the high tower cloaked in darkness. Through the upper windows, mere slits, the stars parted between roving cloud. She rose. The runes upon the flagstones were as meaningless as those upon her robe. White, cream, simple. Linen over line, embroidered with steel and silk. White on white, white on cream. The robe itself did not matter. The runes upon her flesh were there by her own hand, obsolete now. Needles and brushes, ink and dye. She painted deftly, using mirrors and stamps. These too, had become meaningless. Her face and hands were clear. Her ankles, her neckline, all exposure left free, she filled the brazier with a vial of water. The vial was too small for its mass, but like the brazier, it was tied to the elemental planes. The crystal mirror was tied to air and the pouch of ash, whose runes were drawn from, to earth. The robe was shed and its landing scattered the runes, and the transient inks she cleansed from herself.

Far to the east, orange gave way to gold, fast fading silver scattered by crimson. The squawk of the gulls welcomed the first rays and the tower's grey fiery. Barefoot, the cold ceased to touch her, and splashing her face, she reached for her smalls, leggings and dress. Sandy brown under slashed blue and white. Neatly, she tied her hair back. Her reflection stared back. Elfin features, russet hair, tan kissed skin, dark eyes. Her lips lifted in a practiced smile. It was time to face Father.


	3. Revelation

Austere. Venerable. Dignified. Refined. Sophisticated. Learned. The Sage Gorion. Refinement and sophistication were the providence of Ulraunt, Keeper of the Tomes. Characteristics passed onto me, they hoped. Other characteristics, unsavoury habits, they tried to conceal without success. I taught myself discipline. Hours of meditative study or 'character building' chores? It was a butter-knife I first became one with, fascinated with how the light glanced off the blade.

— Flamerule 3, 1368 DR

"Father." She addressed the tall, stern-faced man clad in grey from the open threshold. The cut stone opened into a chamber concealed from view. A tall wardrobe, carved rosewood, faced the door and she knew bookshelves and other fixtures furnished the room. Two tapestries, a Calishite rug, a weathered sea-chest. A brass plate from Cormyr hung on one wall. Mounted braziers on knotted tripod pedestals. A chandelier. Curtains, crimson and gold. Opulence. Distractions.

"That girl will be the death of you."

It was an oft-repeated lament, readily spoken in suppressed anger.

"Father." This was directed around the robed figure.

"Where are you off to now? Chasing after some red-tail again? Has your wanderlust returned so soon?"

"Father." Back to the first.

"What is it child?"

Gorion's voice from around the desk. Ulraunt stood before him, pale, gaunt. There was no benevolent smile this time, from either of them. Ulraunt's scowl was slight, twitching at narrowing lips.

"You wished to see me."

"And so I did."

She waited.

Ulraunt waited.

"I have something – we have something – we wish to tell you." A deep breath. "It is no longer safe for you here. We are leaving."

Her elfin features fixed in overly patient scepticism.

"Stop looking at that."

The tapestry with the depiction of the red wyrm. Firkraag the Magnificent.

"Come inside, child, and close the door."

_Only now?_ She obeyed, and halted mid-step. A knife lay on the engraved desk.

"This was meant to slay you."

Ulraunt did not quite snort.

"We have rarely spoken of your mother."

"This is how you will tell her her heritage?" The Keeper of the Tomes shook his head brusquely. "We feel it is time you knew the truth."

"Yes." Gorion followed on softly. "You have proven yourself to be pure of body and mind." A quick glance from Ulraunt. "Your father…"

Too long a delay and a flash of black. It circled and hovered, peering in, beady, piercing eyes. "Why is that raven outside?"

"Nothing of consequence." Ulraunt again.

"You must learn to be patient." Gorion continued nonplussed. "Everything will be explained in due time." Hesitation held him. "Don't interrupt, child."

She folded her arms and the Keeper of Tomes' eyebrow lifted slightly. Sassiness was not appreciated, and would be greeted coolly, followed by swift punishment. Her hands shifted to her belt, thumbs looping through and steering clear of her hips. Ulraunt's expression mollified marginally.

"You are born of Bhaal." He stated, as if the gravity of this implication were as simple as dropping a pebble from his desk. "Born of murder. Aliana, your mother, was one of his concubines." A slight nod towards Gorion. "An… acquaintance of your father. This has been kept hidden from you and from the world."

Gorion cleared his throat lightly at 'acquaintance' and had the grace to look faintly abashed. "Yes. I liberated you from a temple."

She studied the knife on the desk.

"You were to be sacrificed." Ulraunt supplied. "Slain by Bhaal's priestesses, the mother of his spawn. Against my better judgement, I allowed you shelter here."

Her studied gaze rested on his. Calm eyes stared back. Her features were schooled, her heart and thoughts racing, processing this information. A thousand tiny steps clicked into place. Inside, she was a maelstrom. Years of discipline stilled her.

"You have proved yourself."

"Thank you."

Gentling, Gorion allowed. "It is a great deal to take in…"

She nodded. "I think I need to be alone. Father, Father."

"We are here for when you have questions."

"Do not take too long. You are leaving." Another sharp look towards Gorion from the Keeper of Tomes. "Tell no one. Gather only what you need. You are to purchase nothing that will imply your departure. Ask no pointless questions. As you have been told, all will be explained in due time."

"Yes Father." Meekness followed obedience, and dutifully, she rose on tiptoes to kiss the old man's cheek. Duty paved the way for obedience, and discipline yielded better results than affront, mostly. Gorion received the same treatment and she found herself graced with his smile, and Ulraunt's less severe gaze.

"We leave with the morrow's dawn. Attend to your duties until then."

She inclined her head.

"We will be here."

Ulraunt held his silence.


	4. Farewell

The Lord of Murder shall Perish, but in his doom he will spawn a score of mortal progeny. Chaos shall be sown in their passage. So saith Alaundo. Words chanted every day. Endless repetition of prophecy. Other prophecies. Bhaal is slain. Has been slain. Eleint 16, 1358.

— Flamerule 3, 1368 DR

Solitude was not enough. After pacing within her tower cell, high above the keep, she sought solace in the refuge of the inn. While Imoen cleaned out the stables, her 'uncle' 'Puffguts' tended the bar. Midmorning, before lunch, was quiet. Patrons were scarce; no nobles visited, and the monks were attending their studies. The guard patrolled the grounds and walls. A tryst was not uncommon between monks, or the guards and the monks, but Imoen, two years younger than herself, or so she was told, was discouraged from engaging in such dalliances for now.

The rest of the keep assumed that such an aloof scholar, schooled by Ulraunt himself, would not display the flightiness Imoen possessed. In that, they were right.

Slipping in from the side hatch, she smiled wanly at the innkeep, turned and headed down the cellar stairs. She felt his eyes on her.

"Winthrop."

"Aye, lass." His eyes sparkled in greeting, his broad frame seemingly two-thirds of her stature, his girth half her height, and his own elevation a third as tall. Descendant of an ogre, he joked, from a great grandmother. He told outrageous tales of her toenails and hairy feet, her paunch larger than his own. Amidst the racks of barrels, he instantly gauged something was amiss.

"I… we need to talk."

He nodded slowly, as if he expected it. This time, his words were slower. "Aye, lass."

She hesitated, caught between flying into his arms and standing her ground. It was he who had told her what Gorion and Ulraunt would not, filling in the blanks. Not quite a boyhood companion of the sage, he had nevertheless spent time travelling with Gorion and had spoken at length of their exploits, of Gorion's varied and colourful affairs, including his infatuation with Aliana, her mother. In the stodgy monastery, he was the breath of life that kept her sane, the one to whom her heart belonged while all outside she wore her mask.

She couldn't help but smile when she saw him polishing the bar, or a tankard. For years, she had been cloistered, rarely allowed outside the keep. Only recently, since 1366 DR had she ventured beyond the library halls unsupervised officially. Beyond the grounds, she slipped, but those were out of sight. Winthrop, tolerant of her curiosity, had first introduced her to wine. Imoen rarely listened any more, too old for tales told over and over, too busy making eyes at the guards and young monks. Too busy playing pranks. Imoen made her own stories, daring exploits as she matched wits with the guard and her elders.

Winthrop was lonely, she reflected, and hers was a thirst for knowledge that all the books in Candlekeep could not quench nor dampen. His was experience of the world beyond the walls, regaled with quips and mischief born of humour so wicked it took her breath away and then dissolved her into laughter.

She felt his eyes as she flicked her hair from her eyes, with each turn of her skirt. Sitting by the fire listening to his stories left her light inside, lighter even than what any meditation could bring. Time passed and their banter grew.

His japes and boasts about his 'hotel' being as 'clean as an elven arse' left her redder than the wine she sipped. Such coarseness was unknown to her. A few more sips left her giddy, and she had looked at him with different eyes. One night, while Imoen was out terrorising the bunkhouse, they had found themselves alone. Sitting by the fire, listening as he wove his outrageous yarns, she hand found his knee. Time seemed to stop, the distance between her three-legged stool and his armed throne infinite. Her kiss was gentle, soft, hesitant, shy. He seemed torn, as a groan tore through him. Convulsions wracked him. To be seen as a woman, to be valued. It meant more than all the wealth of Candlekeep. It had been a year ago. Since then, he couldn't wrest her scent from his head, and when he sat her down to dissuade her, her delicate lips stilled him. He ascribed it to petals brushing him in the breeze. Eyes lowered, she waited for his judgement; of all the trysts he had told her of, his knowledge, his humour… when he couldn't turn away, a small, shy smile crept up her and she lifted her gaze. Then she lifted her skirts, and turning, inquired just as shyly if hers was indeed as clean as his hotel. The swallow was audible, and as her smalls fell away, he carried her to new heights, first across a keg, and later in all manner of places. Afterwards, he immediately regretted it and lamented his remorse. Her stare was wide, then angrily she grabbed her clothes, hurt. In his remorse, he had rejected her; his beefy hand reached towards her, and she dissolved into tears, bleating out her fears and hopes, begging him to teach her. He relented.

Now they shared a hidden pallet beneath the kegs in the corner, covered by sacking.

She took one long, hard look at him, and fell into his arms. For the next hour, they shared solitude, until they were lonely no more. His heavy hand smoothed her cheek and lifted her fringe between his fingers. Delicately, she pressed her rosebud mouth to his cracked lips and beckoned him in.

"I'm leaving."

Somehow, he already knew. Tears stung her from the inside, but none seeped out.

"I'm s–"

He stopped her with his chunky forefinger. Large lips replaced it. She writhed under him and allowed herself to moan an invitation. It would be their last; sensing he already knew, she gave herself fully to him.

_Is this how parting is meant to be?_ she wondered and shuddered as he settled over her. She couldn't even get her arms around him, she realised in awe as her eyes drifted to the ale stained apron callously slung across a keg. She kissed him.


	5. Destiny Beckons

Dusk falls, a quiet eve. Bands of red war with ribbons of gold; orange slashed with mauve. The sky is held apart by cloud, pierced more and more by stars. Who can hold the sky together?

— Flamerule 3, 1368 DR

"You are irresponsible!"

She set her chin stubbornly.

"You stupid girl!" Ulraunt whirled. "I warned you–"

"Tell me." She implored, leaning closer. "Father, please. I have to know."

The Keeper of Tomes sighed and took a breath.

Waiting was a game of patience, and patience was a game of waiting. Too calm and the effect was lost; too earnest and eagerness was mistaken for petulance.

"That knife… why won't you listen, girl? It cannot be redeemed; no blood was shed but that of your mother's, hers in your place. You can't bend it to your will. I have said enough on the matter."

"Yes Father." Giving in was not defeat; her real goal would succeed for ceding this.

"Yes, child?" He asked after a moment, suspicious and resigned.

"Father… I." She hesitated deliberately. "My mother… she…"

He sighed.

"Is it true? She and…"

"Yes. She and Gorion were close."

"But Gorion and Firkraag…"

"That damn wyrm, yes. He, your mother, the wyrm, many more. Phylida."

"Phylida?" She feigned shock.

"Where do you think he goes? Fool child."

"But you…"

Ulraunt drew himself up. "We have different views."

"Father, I didn't mean–"

"I know you didn't child."

And now the thrust. "Surely there must be something you can share, something more to tell, or give? Anything that you can offer…" Her most pleading look.

He sighed, longer than before. Then slowly, he withdrew a locket from the desk drawer. It was new to her. "Your mother's."

Her breath caught in her throat.

Carefully, he slipped it over her neck and smiled, almost fondly. Perhaps it was fondness. Looking up, she offered him her brow.

"Kiss me, Father."

He did.

An hour later, she was in the catacombs. Gorion closed the stones behind them without gesticulation. The scent of damp sand and brine reached her nostrils.

She knew better than to ask.

"Ulraunt and I agree there are too many prying eyes." He began. Then, slowly, he took her shoulder and locked his stare with hers. "You cannot return here child. This haven is no longer safe. No matter what should come, the path you take is now your own."

"You're abandoning me?" The realisation stung.

"Never. Should we become separated… Ulraunt cannot extend you aid." Gorion hesitated. "This is a soulgem. A vessel, a container. It is empty. Should anything happen…"

She shook her head.

"Do not argue."

"Father…"

"I have expected this for many years, and made plans. Events occur sooner than I anticipated. You are prepared, child. Ready yourself; the journey ahead will be long and unforgiving. Your sire's throne lies empty and that is what awaits you. Between you and it lies a great many foes, those within and those outside. It is time we moved."

"Where?"

"Away from here. I have prepared a place. I will say no more." The sage hesitated. "Your locket will guide you, conceal you. Never remove it."

_The temple where your mother–_ She unclasped the locket, gasping. Steeling herself, she took the first step. The catacombs beckoned. In her sleeves, she felt her claws glow. The twin tears, godlingsbane, hungered.


End file.
